


Hail Mary

by misha_collins_butt



Series: Wincest/Weecest [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Smut, Brother/Brother, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Lots of Crying, M/M, Post-Hell, Sibling Incest, Smut, Soft Boys, first time in a long time, make-up sex, mention of past underage, mostly angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:15:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22519093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misha_collins_butt/pseuds/misha_collins_butt
Summary: Remember that time Dean threw the original Samulet away? What if it didn't stay in that trash bin?Here's what:
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester/Dean Winchester, Wincest
Series: Wincest/Weecest [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1597030
Comments: 10
Kudos: 126





	Hail Mary

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do NOT condone this dynamic in real life and do NOT want it to be canon.
> 
> I don't own the characters, but this is unbeta'd, so I do own the mistakes.

Sam watches the necklace drop into the trash bin with a dull thud and feels his heart shatter in the same instant.

Through everything, it is the one token of their relationship that Dean has kept - through Sam leaving for Stanford, through Sam running off and meeting Meg, through them being separated and inevitably brought back together each time, that amulet has never left Dean's person.

So this? This is a declaration. This is a finality. This is an irrefutable exposition, one that asserts the end of them, the quintessential love story that is Sam and Dean.

One that screams, 'You are dead to me.'

Because the moment that amulet becomes nothing more than a useless piece of jewelry to Dean, that's the moment Sam becomes nothing more than a passing nuisance.

It's only after several minutes of standing frozen, eyes glued to the bin, that Castiel walking toward the door, breaking Sam's trance, and his gaze flickers up to the stoic angel.

"I'm sorry," Castiel says in his rumbling timbre, eyes cast downward and face ashen. "I didn't mean for him to react that way. I hope you two can patch things up. Goodbye, Sam."

And then he's gone in a blast of cool air and a flap of ethereal wings. And Sam is left alone in this shrinking room with little more than his trembling hands to sweep up the pieces of his brittle heart.

He is a china-glass doll, entrapped in a cage of his own making, and he doesn't see a single place to insert the key.

It takes another long minute for his feet to finally listen to his brain and carry him to the trash can, where he bends low and scoops up the necklace in a gentle caress, grateful the can is otherwise empty.

He feels just as empty staring down at the brass amulet nestled in his palm. Feels the emptiness encroaching on his soul, even as he feels two tonnes heavier than he ever has before. The implications are weighing him down, and it is oh, so grueling to carry the burden of guilt around on your shoulders for this long only to have it doubled just when you think it might be lifted.

Clutching the cold metal in his hand, he looks to the door, still ajar from when Dean stalked out, and presses his lips into a line, determined not to cry. He shoves the necklace in his pocket and hastily finishes packing, not bothering to check if he's got all his stuff. It doesn't seem to be all that important anymore in the face of this crushing revelation.

As he's learned the hard way, there are much worse tragedies to suffer than forgetting a t-shirt in a motel room.

\----

They don't speak the entire way to Mankato. Not that trying is even a question. Dean has his music up so loud that Sam's sure any words he might attempt to conjure would be easily drowned out by the hard bass lines of Van Halen and Alice Cooper.

Dean seems mechanical in his motions, almost robotic in the way he parks the car and leaves Sam without a word to go buy a room for the night, then comes back with a key and that blank expression that just cracks Sam right down the middle, right to his core.

With a trembling lip, Sam hauls himself out of the passenger side and goes to the open trunk, Dean brushing past him on the way. He picks up his bag and closes the trunk, hinges protesting after long decades of use despite Dean's vigilant upkeep. As if on autopilot, Sam follows his brother into the room and closes the door behind him, being sure to lock it - they've already had dinner and it's late, so the chances of either of them leaving are slim to none. Sam would almost entertain the possibility of Dean rushing off to a bar to get plastered, which he usually does when shit hits the fan, but Sam knows better than that. Has seen Dean like this before. Only twice, but he has. 

This is not the boiling rage or pent up depression that Dean keeps shoved deep down inside him until he explodes in just the right place at just the right time. This is not the feelings he masks with dirty remarks and morbid curiosities and frail humour as he drinks himself into oblivion. This is not that Dean.

This is the Dean that sits quietly as he cleans his guns with cool, calculating precision, and the Dean that does not laugh at the television, and the Dean whose eyes remain hard and unreadable no matter what is said or done to cajole him back into his laid-back swagger, faux though it may be.

This is the Dean that stood between thirteen year old Sam and their father when Sam fucked up on his first hunt - which, mind you, he never wanted to participate in to begin with - and the Dean that, five years later, stared Sam down after being informed (finding out by snooping) that Sam was going to college to live his life, and the Dean that, as Sam left, did not look at him or utter a single word, even as Sam watched him with pleading eyes, trying to convey that if he wanted Sam to stay, all he had to do was say so.

This is the Dean that was Sam's only one he'd had to hang onto in his first weeks of university, the last scalding memory of his soulmate etched into his mind with a scalpel made of ice.

Sam is scared of this Dean. Doesn't even try to talk to him as they set up salt lines and settle into their rinky-dink motel room in the nameless neighbourhood that was to be their dwelling for the night.

Their routine is the same, but stiff now, every muscle tense and every breath bated with the silent prayer that neither of them will break the silence that keeps the worst of their head-butting at bay. Right up until the moment Sam hears Dean's first snore, he keeps up the charade, and then he can't anymore.

With the looming presence of his conscious brother now gone, Sam lets himself crumble. Over top of his bedding, curled into a fetal position he hasn't taken since he was eleven, he clutches the amulet he'd been hiding all evening to his chest, and he lets the tears come unbridled. They're soft at first, the gentle drizzle at the start of spring that leaves the blossoms dewy, but soon he's quaking and sniffling, body wracked by sobs he can't reign in. The bed springs creak beneath his shivering body, but he can't find a reason to care.

The hand fisted around the necklace comes up to his chin; with the intention of what, he's not sure. Maybe he thought he was going to kiss it or something, but he can't bring himself to make any more contact with it than this.

Just as he's gathering the courage to look at it again, the other bed shifts on its frame with the unquestionable sound of someone who is awake and sitting up. 

Sam freezes in place, resisting the urge to wipe away the tears streaking his cheeks. Maybe Dean hasn't heard him, maybe he can pretend like he's asleep until Dean settles back in.

Clearly, Sam is much more stupid than his LSAT score would suggest. It's almost funny, the idea that he still might be under the illusion that he can trick Dean like that. Dean Winchester, the legendary man who raised and loved him since birth? No fuckin' way, bucko. Thanks for playing, better luck next time.

Not a word is spoken between the squeal of the mattress as Dean pushes himself out of his bed - the first time in five years they've slept in seperate beds after their reconciliation upon Sam's return from his Apple Pie Life - and the resounding squeak of the equally rusty springs in Sam's as Dean crawls into it and curls himself around Sam's body.

Seemingly knowing just on instinct, Dean grips Sam's wrist and pulls his balled up hand away from his face, then gingerly tugs Sam's fingers open until they are both staring at the necklace stuck to Sam's hand. When he carefully pulls it away, the pattern is indented into the heel of Sam's palm. Dean then reaches back to the nightstand between their beds and sets the amulet down much more tenderly than he'd dropped it into the trash. The tiny, faraway sound of the metal clinking against the wood pokes at something deep in Sam's distraught heart.

Abruptly, Dean's lips are at his ear and Dean's hand is slowly petting back over Sam's hair as he whispers, "Hate it when you cry."

The words rip a whole new bout of soft whimpers from Sam's now limp body. He doesn't know why he's still crying. Dean is holding him. Dean doesn't hate him. He hasn't lost his brother forever. And yet something buried in the back of his mind tells him it's not over. That he still has ramifications to fear, and that this is just the night talking, that this is just the sleep that pulls at Dean from all sides making him rueful and sweet. And, though Sam's mind has been known to lie, he believes it now with every fibre of his being, does not give himself over to the warm touch of Dean's hands bidding him closer with the promise of safety.

"Sssshh," Dean hushes, his left arm hooking around Sam's torso, twining his fingers with Sam's, and his other hand still smoothing Sam's hair back, just like he used to do when they were kids. The difference here is that Sam's fears are darker now. It was so much simpler back then, to cuddle into his brother's comforting embrace and let the things haunting his nightmares melt away. The memories are brought back to the forefront of Sam's anguish as Dean coos, "Sh, sh, sh, sh. It's okay. It's okay--hey, come on. Come here."

He pulls Sam closer so their bodies are flush and Sam can't resist the temptation anymore. He rolls over and shoves his face into the the base of Dean's throat, allowing his tears to flow freely and his brother to soothe them away.

In a voice like a scratched CD, and overcome with sorrow, Dean breathes, "It's okay, Sammy. Okay? It's okay. Sammy. My baby Sammy. I'm so sorry, baby, I never meant to make you cry. I'm so sorry, so so sorry."

Dean is crying, too, when his hands cup Sam's cheeks and pull his head up so emerald can meet earthly hazel.

Tears mix as they lock lips for the first time in weeks, maybe even months, and it tastes so different than before. Tastes like saline sadness and feigned stability instead of brilliant smiles and carefree summers; like sober air from solemn lungs and wasted time instead of love-drunk murmurs and moving together for endless hours beyond dusk; like searching hesitations and desperate uncertainty instead of blood-deep coordination in every unpractised step and languid confidence in the silky morning sun.

It tastes like something Sam wants to recoil from, but that he simultaneously needs all of, masochistically resolute to feel every sharp pain that slices into him as he takes and takes and takes and gives so little in return. He always does. He always wants Dean to make him forget. It never works, so he's not sure why he feels inclined to do the same now, but his body moves of its own volition, automatic response to Dean's mere suggestion.

Sam predicts it even before Dean inhales deeply and swings his leg over Sam's hip, flattening the younger man against the sheets - Dean is going to ask Sam to fuck him. He knows from the countless times before that Sam has needed consolation and Dean has put him back together piece by slivered piece with every languorous touch. 

No sooner has Sam finished this thought than does Dean break their kiss and nuzzle against Sam's ear and rasp, "Make love to me, Sammy."

At once, Sam's stomach floods with relief and dread. Relief for the normality, and for Dean's pleading request, and dread for what comes after, in the morning, when their lives fraught with chaos can no longer be suppressed by the stilled silence of the watchful moon. A grimace floats over Sam's face, but then he's ignoring his every doubt and flipping them over so Dean is beneath him, beautiful bow-legs locked around Sam's waist.

He has his right hand planted on the side of Dean's face with his thumb hooked under Dean's chin so he can leverage the older man's head up and mouth wetly at the sharp line of Dean's jaw. There, Sam tastes the lavender beard oil Dean uses even when he doesn't grow it out, and the prickle of stubble crossing his tongue in swaths of shampoo drain-off. Dean gasps upon Sam's venture further downward, to the front of his throat, where Sam's lips lure apertures into the superficial vessels in Dean's skin, striping him with shallow bruises that are sure to mark him as Sam's for days to come.

The younger hunter traverses ever lower, until the rounded neckline of Dean's tee hinders his path, at which point Sam shoves his hands up underneath the material and haphazardly pushes it off of Dean's body. Now unobstructed, Sam continues his route, trying and failing to keep it slow, how he knows Dean usually likes it; he just barely manages to taunt at Dean's nipples with reckless teeth before he's getting too frantic to hold off any longer. Sam skips the small talk and sinks downward until he's got the stretchband of Dean's boxer briefs between his fingers, tugging at it until Dean gets the message and lifts his hips up so Sam can pull them off. 

Unfolding himself, Sam yanks his own shirt off and then his underwear as he stands momentarily to grab his bottle of lube from his bag. Then he's slithering back up between Dean's thighs with greasy fingers and salacious nips at the sensitive skin where Dean's legs meet his crotch. Sam wastes no time slipping his middle finger into Dean's hole, tight and unyielding after such a long period of disuse.

Dean, of course, makes the most obscene sound to ever come out of a human being's mouth (because he always does), and whether that's to please Sam, who enjoys a good show and has encouraged Dean to be vocal many times, or because he genuinely cannot stop himself from making them, Sam isn't sure. But it doesn't matter much when his mouth is being occupied by Sam's tongue and then when Sam hurriedly presses another finger in and lets his lips dance around Dean's skin until it's shimmering with spit. And it especially doesn't matter because, either way, Sam's sure he's never heard anything so hypnotising before, and he gets sucked in every time to the siren-like song of Dean's moans.

Teasingly, once he's shaken himself out of his reverie, Sam traces his tongue around the spongy head of Dean's cock, drawing out more of the noises he so loves, and dips into the leaking slit where pre-come collects in big, shiny globules and then dribbles down the underside of Dean's shaft. As he hollows his cheeks around the crown, Sam slides two more fingers in synchronously, knowing Dean can take the bit of extra stretch after having needed to rush several times before, like when all they had was ten minutes at a rest stop bathroom before someone came banging on the door. 

Strangled sounds get cinched off halfway up Dean's throat and when his back arches up off the bed like a fucking world-star gymnast, Sam knows he's found Dean's p-spot. Out of fascination, he stays there and rubs at the nerves, just watching Dean's reaction, the way he squirms and writhes and heaves in clawing breaths of air like he's being suffocated. Once his hips slam back down onto the bed, however, Sam relents and removes his fingers with a slippery suction noise, repositioning himself to sit on his haunches between Dean's spread-eagle legs.

"Jesus, Sammy, you tryin' to give me a heart attack? Fuck," Dean breathes, voice catching where his air wavers, and Sam finds it in himself to offer a small, loving smile.

He sags forward to mumble against Dean's skin, "Sorry, De. Just love hearin' you is all."

His words are slurred, a little high on Dean's essence, but it must do something for Dean, what he says or how he says it, because the older man takes in a quivering breath and digs his blunt nails into the fleshy expanse of Sam's sides.

"So make me loud, then," Dean murmurs, head tilting back to allow Sam to graze his teeth along the tendons at the base of the older hunter's neck.

And Sam obliges (because he always does).

Sam's tip easily glides past the relaxed rim of muscle, plunging into the soft channel beyond, making him keel over in pleasure until his forehead is hanging against Dean's shoulder. From there, he guides the rest of his length inward, gasping at the velvet feel that engulfs him, and at the ecstasy of being inside his brother again.

"Sam," Dean wheezes out somewhere between the oxygen fleeing his lungs and the groan that trails it.

Without needing any further confirmation, Sam sets the pace, surprising himself by rolling his hips slow and tender, whereas before, he'd been frenzied, impatient. But maybe it's because Dean's always liked it this way from the first time he let Sam top, had always preferred the sensual build of a persistent rhythm to the near painful spike that overpowers all else in the throes of manic lust, and just maybe Sam has learned over the years to love it that way, too. 

Sure as the sun rises in the east, Dean latches on to the ginger rock of Sam's hips, punching out faint little breaths like a virgin schoolgirl, and it takes Sam far away from here, back to a time when shit wasn't so complicated, when they fucked for the hell of it, because they could, not because they had to just to comfort the perpetual hurt of the life they're forced to live. For just a second, Sam can almost forget the useless defeat he'd felt, the remorse that had squeezed him in the deathly grip of a one-tonne starving python when that amulet had plummeted into the trash can like it was made of nothing. He can almost forget the look of betrayal that'd flashed across Dean's face, because Sam had failed him again. Because he always fails him. 

And therein lies the almost. The question that never gets answered. The lingering incertitude that follows him everywhere, like it's stapled itself to his shadow.

What a contrived delusion he invents himself, to believe that in some distant place he can still be the blameless little brother that Dean once knew, that he craves still today, that Dean pretends he still has, until pretending isn't enough. Until Sam isn't enough.

The faucet twists on again, and tears trickle down Sam's cheeks as he thrusts himself into his big brother over and over again, slow as molasses, and that's how he comes, too. With the echo of memories behind fluttering lashes and the sob of Dean's name on his tongue. As he pulses his release into the depths of the older hunter's entrance, the tears pause on a tremble like the peak of a roller coaster before they tumble to the hollow of Dean's collarbone, where they pool and fade into sweat-damp flesh.

Sam wraps his hand around his brother's arousal and pumps a little faster than he'd been fucking, with just enough pressure to toe the line of pain, until Dean follows him over the precipice, cum splattering across his stomach and Sam's fingers.

And when all is calmed again, and they've drifted down from their high, and they're all tangled together on top of the mussed bedspread, Sam lets himself dissolve once more into a ball of grief.

He doesn't mean to, not really. He thinks, in fact, that he's being fucking ridiculous. Dean just gave him something so special, something that, really, has  _ become _ special, since it so rarely happens like that anymore, unable to fit into their restless schedules. And he can't bear the thought that he's just making Dean feel worse, because if fucking him isn't enough for Sam, what is? But that's not why Sam is crying and he struggles to articulate that as Dean worriedly gathers the younger man into his arms and asks what happened, what's wrong. Because Dean's just fucking selfless like that and it makes Sam sick how fucking ungrateful he's been.

"Tell me you still love me," Sam whimpers, begs, and he thinks he sounds pathetic.

There's a silence that stretches on and Sam willingly, if dejectedly, takes it as his response, but then Dean gasps, "Sammy. Sammy, my Sammy, my baby boy. Of  _ course _ , of  _ course _ I do. I'm so sorry, oh God. I never meant--Jesus, Sammy, I didn't think...fucking Christ." He holds Sam, holds him up, holds him together, with deft fingertips and lilting words. His hands run up and down Sam's back and his arms and his neck and his hair and Dean sways him back and forth, until the glue finally starts curing, until the shards of Sam's heart begin healing. "You'll always be my Sammy, you got that? I'll always love you, baby, I love you so much, you're-" Dean presses a kiss to Sam's forehead "-the most important thing in the world to me and I'm so so sorry I made you think differently. I never want you to think I don't love you, Sam. Of  _ course _ I love you. Of  _ course _ ."

Dean's words lull Sam into a fugue state, that place between sleep and consciousness where awareness ceases to exist, but every sensation has the potential to startle. 

Gentle as can be, Dean manoeuvers them under the covers and envelops Sam in a perfect Big Brother Hug, messy midriff tacky on Sam's bare skin. For the first time in a while, Sam feels true repose, feels his walls coming down.

He still can't let himself hope for forgiveness, still can't let himself believe quite yet that Dean isn't just assuaging his guilt because that's What Big Brothers Are Supposed To Do.

But just for a second, he can let himself dream.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are my life support, pls don't let me die.


End file.
